


Jutting Angles

by littlebunnyisgettingfatonhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Body Image, Bulimia, Eating Disorder, Emotional Abuse, M/M, Self-Harm, chubby john watson, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:48:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebunnyisgettingfatonhoney/pseuds/littlebunnyisgettingfatonhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trigger warning!!! Sherlock suffers from anorexia.</p><p>*Chapter III is now up!!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Formatting refuses to cooperate and it's getting me really furious. Please forgive me!

John was used to it, for the most part. It was probably incredibly unhealthy but Sherlock refused to eat anyway. Going days without a single speck of food, maybe a cup of tea, here and there. Except lately, John had noticed something. He snuck up on Sherlock to only see him standing in his bedroom, in front of a mirror, pinching skin on his waist and frowning. John gasped silently. Was all of this, starving, not because of "digestion slows me down", but because Sherlock was unhappy with his body? What he was pinching, it wasn't even fat, it was actual skin. John silently crept back into the living room, his muscles stiff with worry.  
Although he didn't have all the facts, it already sounded like an eating disorder. Sherlock Holmes? An eating disorder? He knew Sherlock liked to look good, it wasn't as if he was humble on his physical state. John breathed in a sharp breath when he heard Sherlock walk into the living room. John wasn't going to confront him. He wanted to wait for more signs.  
Sherlock ate very little, even when they weren't on a case. It killed John to see Sherlock so resisting to anything that was over 100 calories. While Sherlock surprisingly hadn't noticed John constantly watching him, while he was drinking tea or taking small bites of an apple and putting it down, John was indeed, watching him. One day, John had enough of the foolishness.  
"Sherlock could I talk to you?" He asked calmly, not wanting Sherlock to panic. Sherlock looked up from his laptop.  
"Yes, John?" He asked inquiringly. John sighed, strategically thinking his words out.  
"We're not on a case. There's no digestion to slow you down. Why are you not eating?" John asked him and watched Sherlock's nostrils flare a little. Sherlock cleared his throat.  
"I eat." He responded. 'Not good enough,' thought John.  
"Yes, maybe half a fruit or a cracker or tea. Barely enough that's healthy." John said flatly.  
"John, just because you eat unhealthy doesn't mean you can force me to." Sherlock remarked coldly.  
"Unhealthy?" Spat John. "You're the one in the first place that takes me out to eat. Also, it's better to eat takeout than nothing at all, Sherlock." Sherlock rolled his eyes discreetly.  
"John, personally, I'd prefer not to look like you."  
That had burned. It was a terribly cruel thing to say, it left John searching for words. Finally he said,  
"Could you elaborate on that?"  
"Yes." Sherlock said smoothly. "You're fat. You jiggle, John. I've seen you eat. It's almost disgusting to watch you devour so much food. I've seen you shirtless before. Your stomach wobbles when you walk, it's horrendous to see. So yes, I'd rather not look like you and keep my elegant physique."  
John felt his face flame red in embarrassment. He didn't realize Sherlock found him to be so repulsive. He didn't understand why Sherlock was saying such horrible things to him. He was trying to help him. Sherlock's face suddenly fell from the hateful sneer he was holding, turning into a look of ruefulness and almost innocence.  
"John, I am so-"  
John turned round on his heel, and stomped into his bedroom. He couldn't forget what Sherlock had said about him. The thoughts of, "It's almost disgusting to watch you devour so much food." or, "I'd rather not look like you." It was extremely damaging to whatever self confidence John had built up on his own. It all seemed to disappear now. But he knew he had to focus on Sherlock. He knew Sherlock was not okay and needed help. He heard a rapping on his door.  
"John? John, please. I am so, so, so utterly sorry and I cannot-" Sherlock plead desperately behind the door. John interrupted his pleading by opening the door and seeing Sherlock's face strained and tormented.  
"I regret everything I said a few minutes ago, I'm so sorry, John, please forgive-"  
"Sherlock. Shh. It's alright. It's alright."  
"No, it's not!" Sherlock said frustratedly. "It was uncalled for and... It was very hurtful toward you."  
"I forgive you, Sherlock. I didn't mind too much." John lied. He wanted to help Sherlock, not tire him even more. John sat on a wooden chair in front of his bed and motioned Sherlock to sit on the bed, in front of him. He leaned forward and propped his head up with his hands.  
"Sherlock, tell me what's going on."  
"Nothing." Sherlock said defensively.  
"There's bloody something!" John shouted, accidentally. Sherlock bore his eyes deep into John's.  
"I'm fine. I'm very healthy and thin and I get a lot of exercise and there's nothing to qualm over."  
"You rarely eat anymore. You burn many more, too many more calories than you eat. Just because you're thin does not make you healthy. I'm so worried, Sherlock. I really am. And you need to let me help you. You need to trust me, okay?"  
"I don't need help."  
"You never eat, Sherlock! I fucking saw you pinching non-existing fat! Stop fucking denying it! You have an eating disorder and you need! My! Help!" John shouted at Sherlock, without any reins. He stopped shouting and breathed hard. He hoped so badly Sherlock wouldn't walk out of this room and hate him. Instead, he did something surprising. He bowed his head, ashamed. His dark curls limped down.  
"I like to look like this. Angular. Jutting angles all over. Thin and pure. I look so beautiful like this, John. But I can't be fat. I can't have this extra fat on me. It's indecent." Sherlock said in a self-despising tone.  
"That "fat" isn't fat. It's just skin. You're far from fat. Look at me, Sherlock! I'm much heavier than you."  
"Yes, but you're-"  
Sherlock cut himself off. John already knew what he was going to say. It hurt John immensely to know that Sherlock found him ugly but he continued to try to get to him.  
"Is there a reason you're doing this to yourself? Starving yourself? Other than looking attractive?"  
Sherlock shifted his weight on the bed.  
"No, I don't believe so." He answered softly.  
"Do you know that you've always been very attractive? Even when you weren't starving yourself to look like a skeleton?"  
"I look better now." Sherlock replied in a collective manner.  
"No you fucking don't Sherlock. Stop kidding yourself. You look sick. It's scaring me. I'm scared for your wellbeing. And I'm going to make you eat if you refuse to right now."  
"You can't make me do anything." Sherlock said agitatedly. John nodded forcefully.  
"Yes, I can."  
"Stop it, John!" Sherlock said frighteningly forceful. "I will not become like you!"  
Again with the shots at John. John felt his throat go tight.  
"Just stop, Sherlock. Just... Just stop it. All of this hatred. Sometimes I wonder if you hate me. And I don't need to wonder anymore, because I know. I know that you're so vain to have my body as an example of what 'you will never become'. I know that you're such an asshole that my body was probably more motivation to starve yourself. I fucking get it, alright then?"  
John stood up from his chair and locked himself into the bathroom. And there his eyes welled up and tears began to fall down his cheeks and wet his button down. He made no noise, except for the occasional sniff. This time, Sherlock did not knock on the door and apologize. He didn't know what to do to help Sherlock. It took a lot of nerves to be humiliated like that, especially by Sherlock Holmes. Even as a skilled doctor, he didn't know how to help him. He didn't want to play victim here. It wasn't him that needed saving, it was Sherlock.  
After two hours or so, John finally came out of the bathroom. He saw Sherlock laying on the bed, scrolling through his phone, ignoring John's presence. John bit his lip and tried not to feel bad about it. He walked into the kitchen and smelled something nice. He pulled out a pan of cooked lasagna from the oven.  
"Sh- Sherlock?" John asked.  
"Yes, I made that. It's for you."  
John didn't know how to react. Was it an apology? Why was Sherlock making John food if he thought John was fat? Oh. Oh, John understood now. His goal was to make sure John was always heavier than him, to make sure he was always more attractive than John, to reassure himself. John shook his head, and cut the pan lasagna into squares. He pulled out a plate and put two pieces of the lasagna on it. He brought it to the living room, sat in his armchair and ate it. When John wasn't looking, Sherlock peered away from his phone to peek at John eating and sneered to himself. John was so pathetic. John has no restraint against food, for the most part. Sherlock, though, Sherlock had so much resistance. He was so much stronger. So much more perfect and lovely than John's stout frame. John indeed was his reassurance to know that he was so much more skinnier and better.  
"Would you mind helping me finish this last piece?" John suddenly asked Sherlock, snapping him out of his destructive thoughts.  
"No. I'm not hungry." He lied. He was hungry, of course, but he was also strong and some lasagna would not frighten him. John looked at him in such a way, a way that broke Sherlock's heart and he felt himself feeling his real emotions. Not the bitter, horrible anorexic Sherlock, but the real Sherlock. The one who had knocked on John's door and apologized to him.  
"Please, Sherlock. Just a little, very little. Please, just do this favor for me. I'll eat the all the rest of the lasanga without you, just eat this piece." John begged. His voice was shaky and there were tears in his eyes, but not down his face. Sherlock stood up from the sofa, slowly. He walked over to John and picked up the oily piece of pasta that contained meat and tomato sauce and spinach and other fatty things. He lifted the piece to his mouth, bit it and swallowed quickly. He needed to do this fast. He shoved the rest of it into his mouth and swallowed, giving John a false smile. John was ecstatic, throwing his arms around Sherlock's malnourished body.  
"I'm very proud of you, Sherlock. Thank you." John said fondly. This was a start. If Sherlock could eat this, maybe he could start to eat more? Sherlock looked down at him and nodded, continuing to give John a fake grin.  
Sherlock jumped up a bit, hand in front of his crotch.  
"I've got to use the toilet, John. Be right back." He told John as he rushed to the bathroom. John nodded and sat back into his armchair. Sherlock locked the door behind him and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt so guilty. How many calories could that have been? At least 200. Sherlock turned the sink water all the way and then turned on the bathroom fan to make as much noise as possible. He shrunk to the ground and sat in front of the toilet. He took his toothbrush and pushed it into his throat. Suddenly, the vile liquid from his stomach rose up and he vomited into the toilet. His body shook as he threw up what little remains of food his stomach had. He spit and was about to stand up when he heard a violent thrashing of the door. He stood rigid and waited for John to speak. He quietly turned the water and the fan off and stood behind the door, waiting for John to speak.  
"Sherlock," John whispered coldly. "Open this door right now."  
Sherlock opened the door slowly to face John, who's face was drained of color and the only emotion to be found was disappointment.


	2. Demolishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for such a long wait on this chapter. Initially I didn't expect to continue this story and I would have just left it at a cliffhanger. But I got input that people wanted the story the continue! After a long time, here is chapter II! 
> 
> *Warning: fatphobia, emotional abuse, eating disorder, angst*
> 
> This chapter is quite a dark one and I have never ever written either of these characters in these states. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3

"John." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hi."

John's jaw clenched a bit, his lips puckered. 

"God." John muttered. Sherlock was, in fact, having trouble reading John's emotion.

"What are you doing." It wasn't a question, it really wasn't. It was a 'I know exactly what you're doing but I need to hear what you think you're doing' type of thing. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, still tasting the vile, barely digested food scent wavering in his mouth. 

"You know what I was doing. Why are you asking if you know?"

John shut his eyes and rubbed his temple.

"Oh fucking Christ. Oh my fucking- Are you bloody okay? Honestly? You're going to the hospital, I don't care what you say."

Sherlock laughed hollowly. "No. You can't order me around, John. I only vomited. It's not a huge predicament." 

John smiled the threatening closed lip smile he does when he would indeed rather tear someone to pieces. "Sherlock. When your body shuts down because you're purging your food up, and you die, for real, I'm going to be blamed. I'm going to be blamed and you'll be dead and.... And! I shouldn't even need an explanation to why you shouldn't throw up your food." 

"Oh, John, shut up! Everything is about you, for God's sake. 'I'm such a victim, blah, blah, blah, you should feel so bad for me.' I believe that this only bothers you because one, I look better than you, two, you don't want to be ‘blamed’ for anything that will 'happen' to me." Sherlock scoffed.

"I see that anorexia has made you delusional, as well as stupid." John muttered as he stormed to the living room, grabbed his parka and walked out of 221B. 

Sherlock scowled and slowly made his way out of the bathroom. God, he shouldn't have said that. Stupid! Stupid! John was trying to help him, even though he didn't need help. On John’s part, it was a rather rash move on his part, not tending to Sherlock but instead, storming out. Sherlock sank down into the sofa, drawing his dressing gown tightly around his weary body. He stared at his feet. He stared at the wall. He stared at the wallpaper of the flat. He stared at the door to John’s bedroom. John. How he loved John… John always dealt with him, always was rational and kind and helpful to Sherlock. And Sherlock always pushed him away.   
Sherlock lifted his phone from the desk and sent John a text message. 

‘John. I apologize. Please come back home,’ he hesitated before adding the last part, ‘I miss you.’

Sherlock sent the text and hoped John would read it, somehow find it in him to forgive Sherlock and come home so they could lie down together and watch a documentary. 

He felt a low rumble in his abdomen, the slosh of the acids in his stomach; needing something to digest now. Sherlock looked down in disgust, with a curled lip and accompanying sneer. 

“Shut up, you disgusting, useless cur.” He spat, rising from the sofa and taking long strides into the kitchen. He dug through the cabinets to find a large glass and brought it to the table. He opened the fridge (lacking any human body parts) and brought out the water pitcher. He filled his glass to the top and brought it to his lips, quickly draining the glass. Water. His closest companion, it seemed. He could simply drink some large amounts of water and he wouldn't be all that hungry! Sherlock downed three glasses of the water and although water is tasteless, it left a wretched taste in Sherlock’s mouth. ‘Too much water, not enough food.’ His body was screaming out to him. Water was empty, had a matching nothing to it. It was pure, cold, taken for granted. Just like Sherlock liked to think of himself. Sherlock’s stomach distended a bit, bloated from the water. That was his least favorite part of all of it. The bloating. Ugh, how humiliating. A protruding gut, stretching his skin taut over his middle. Thankfully, this part of the process usually went away in an hour or so. This bloating was different than the food bloating John frequently encountered. After John would piggishly stuff his face with something awfully fattening, like ravioli, for God’s sake, he would leave the table with a hand over his corpulent middle and then fall back into his arm chair. Appalling. It was appalling to Sherlock. He would discreetly watch John in disgust, seeing his wobbling belly or thick thighs, promising himself he would never, ever look like that. These sort of toxic thoughts that intruding in Sherlock’s mind were a large reason as to why Sherlock was abusing himself in this way. John wasn’t disgusting, of course not. John was lovely and homely and enjoyed simple pleasures. A fat person compared to a thin one certainly did not make the fat one less appealing. But Sherlock had his eyes set on being thin, being in control. He made the choices, he decided what his body would look like and he intended on keeping it that way. 

Sherlock’s phone made a small beep and on the screen, it showed John’s distant reply. ‘I'm coming.’

John arrived and didn't say a word. He barely made eye contact with the detective. 

“Hello, John.” Sherlock said patiently, tapping away on his laptop. John hesitated a few seconds. 

“Hi.” He said in a clipped manner. 

“So where’d you go?” Sherlock mused. He knew exactly where John went. 

“None of your business.” 

“Is it none of my business because you went to Speedy’s downstairs, gobbled down two sandwiches, plus a basket of chips! Accompanied with a soup?”

“Oh, what? Are you hungry?” John mocked bitterly. Truly, he was fighting back large, corpulent tears. 

“Eating your feelings away, John. You truly do have no control over anything, do you? You've gained, what? Almost two stone in less than a few months? That's truly disheartening. It's difficult to see you, the glutton you are. Personally, I would be a bit ashamed.” Sherlock shot back, looking up from the laptop, directly into John’s startled eyes. John's mouth gaped open, sincerely at loss for words. He spun around on his heel with silent, heavy, burning tears cascading down his cheeks. He stomped all the way to his bedroom and flung the door shut behind him, letting the violent movement shake the flat. John sat in his bed, silently sobbing, allowing the hot tears flow freely, temporarily staining his grey jumper. He didn't know what he had done. Truly, what had he done to deserve so much– So much despising? Sherlock was hating him, for what? Simply living? Eating? Not torturing himself with diets and calories and “portion sizes” and other bullshit. He hated Sherlock at the moment. He hated him so goddamn much that he wanted to go up to him and punch him in the face so hard that he wouldn't be able to see straight for days. 

John took a nap on his bed, awaking to a slightly tear damp pillow. He changed out of his trousers and jumper and slid into his tartan pajama trousers and white T shirt. The T shirt did him no justice in concealing his chubby belly but it wasn't his problem that he was apparently obliged to cover himself up because his boyfriend didn't want to “see fat”. John quietly opened the bedroom door and peered at Sherlock sitting on his chair, staring into the fire going in the fireplace. John had a yearning to crawl next to Sherlock on the chair, sit in his lap and hold him close as they both enjoyed each other's sweet company. But that wasn't the situation at all. 

“So you're back.” Sherlock mumbled without tearing his gaze from the flickering flames. John didn't reply as he bore his eyes into Sherlock’s profile. 

“You do know that's abuse.” John said, loud and clear. 

Sherlock’s eyes flitted away from the fire and focused their attention on John and his trembling lip. 

“What.” Not a question, almost a threat.

“What you said to me,” John said, a little daunted now. “What you said to me before. That, that's abuse, Sherlock.” 

“I've never–! I've never abused you, John! What are you going on about, you idi–” Sherlock protested with a dark look passing his face, nostrils flaring. John shook his head, not noticing that he had begun to lean back a bit in his chair. Sherlock outstretched a hand, lightly resting his fingers on John’s wrist, almost in apology. 

“No, Sherlock. Please… Please don't touch me right now.” John muttered with a large lump in his throat and his eyes feeling tired. Sherlock retracted his hand quickly, pressing his curled fist against his chest in offense. 

“Fine. It's not like I'd even like to touch someone as hoggish as yourself,” 

“Stop, Sherlock…” John warned weakly.

“I can't seem to even believe that I've even kissed you before. Someone as grotesque as you. Think yourself as lucky that I've even–” Sherlock said with a despicable side glance at John.

“You know what? I'm fucking done. I'm done. For real. That's it. That's it, you fucking piece of dog shit! I'm leaving. Tonight.” John shouted at the top of his lungs, leaping out of his chair, hands clenched at his sides. He started to cry again, not even hiding the tears from Sherlock. He let out pitiful sounds in his sobs and tore at his hair. 

“My God.” He whispered as his mouth quivered, his entire face drenched in tears, hands on the top of his head. John's body shook feverishly as his knees buckled and he sat in front of the fire on his knees and crying. Sherlock merely stared at John, expressionless and motionless. He had truly hit John like an assassin. He had reared down an already vulnerable person. He had demolished a blooming relationship. He had left the most important person of his life in anguish. Sherlock Holmes wanted to be in control and Sherlock Holmes left everything scattered.


	3. It's Funny I'm the Broken One, But You're The Only One Who Needed Saving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *self harm warning, please watch out*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha so I finished this in an two hours and it's 3:22 AM so I hope there aren't any typos!

Sherlock abruptly stood from his own chair and stared at John in disbelief. John? Leaving? That simply… No, this must all be John acting overdramatic, not realizing what he'd said. 

“John? Are you… Breaking up with me?” Sherlock said with a quivering voice. John didn't reply because truly, he didn't know himself. He loved Sherlock, he really did. And Sherlock loved him. But there was something… Wrong with him lately. 

“I'm calling Mycroft.” John muttered as he distracted himself with gathering his things around the flat. 

“No you're not!” Cried Sherlock, staring daggers into John’s back. His cries were thwarted by the sound of John’s phone ringing Mycroft. 

“H– Hello? John, it's a bit late, don't you think? Even I need rest sometimes. But what can I do for you; as it's obviously something a bit desperate.”

“Hi, Mycroft. I, um, we, need you to come over.” John sputtered as he refused to look at Sherlock in the face. Sherlock’s own face was turning Crimson in fury and embarrassment. 

“Now? Why, what could possibly–”

“I’m breaking up with Sherlock.” John blurted out, embarrassed at his own words. 

Sherlock cringed and the silence on the phone was painful. 

“Oh. I see,” Mycroft said, obviously stunned. However, he quickly recovered. “Well, I knew sooner or later you would get sick of my younger brother. I wish you the best, John.” 

“W– wait, you're not coming over?” John quickly interjected before Mycroft could hang up. 

“Why, of course not. John, my knowledge in the field of romance and affection is quite limited. I am of no use in this situation. I certainly could not give you two relationship advice!” Mycroft chuckled hollowly. “Goodnight, John, Sherlock.” 

John stared at the phone in his hands, quietly standing and staring at the floor, not knowing what to do. 

“You can leave now.” Sherlock spat as he turned and faced the fire once again. He noisily opened a desk drawer and found his pack of nicotine patches. Without flinching, he slapped on four. Oh God. He had lost John. He had lost, he had lost, he had lost John. A constant ringing in his mind. John lingered for a minute, wrung his hands and went to his bedroom. He awkwardly roamed the flat, filling a box with some of his necessities. Sherlock ignored him the whole time, merely sucking in breaths from the rush of the nicotine. 

“Sherlock, take those off. You’ll get nicotine poisoning.” John demanded, becoming fed up with the groans Sherlock was producing. 

Sherlock looked up from his forearm and glanced at John with bleary eyes. His eyes had become pink in color and large tears slid off each side of his face. 

“John…” Sherlock whispered. “I need help.” He said as more tears started to fall and his lip and chin wobbled and quivered and he carefully peeled the patches off and out stretched a hand to John. 

John cautiously took Sherlock’s shaking hand in his own, rubbing his warm with two hands, watching Sherlock anxiously. 

“What do you need help with?” John asked softly, continuing to rub Sherlock’s large hands. 

“I ruined everything. All I wanted,”– he hiccuped his tears and his voice shook– “Was to be in control of myself. And hurting you made, made me feel seemingly better about myself. And I act… And I act like I'm a ‘sociopath’ or whatever you'd like to call it… But I'm not, John.” Sherlock cried out with a sob. “John, I'm not. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.” He said as the tears trailed onto his lips and he shook his head back and forth. “John, you know I'm not. Please. You know I'm not. You know me. You're the only one that,” Sherlock’s voice cracked desperately as he tightened his grip on John’s hand, “You’re the only one that loves me, John.” 

John felt his own tears start again and he searched for words. “Y– Yes, Sherlock. I love you.” John said truthfully as he looked up at Sherlock. 

“I'm not a sociopath, I'm not in control of anything, I'm abusive, I'm a horrible, God awful boyfriend and I have issues. I heard you sobbing, John. I heard you. In your room. You were trying to be quiet but I heard you. I heard you and I started to cry and I–” 

“What, Sherlock?” John asked soothingly, continuing to kneel next to Sherlock’s chair, holding his hand while he spoke. Sherlock looked at John with frightened eyes. 

“I can't tell you.” Sherlock said cautiously. “You’ll…” 

“Sherlock, please.” 

Sherlock stood up and lowered his pajama trousers. 

“Sherlo– Are you seriously horny because I'm not having s–” John said while rolling his eyes and let go of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock didn't look up but instead peeled down the elastic of his pants, revealing his protruding hip.

“Oh…” John gasped in alarm, automatically placing a gentle finger on the flesh. “Oh, Sherlock.”

The bloody, jagged mess of pale flesh on Sherlock’s thigh.

The burgundy inflamed cuts that were hastily yet violently done by a Swiss Army knife that was torn against the skin. 

The grimace on Sherlock's face as John looked at his thigh in disbelief, his own head hanging down in shame. John rose carefully, carefully sliding his arms around Sherlock as if he were a porcelain doll. He held Sherlock in his arms, letting him bury his face in the doctor’s shoulder. John sniffed quite a few times, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock’s spine, being able to easily feel each vertebrae. 

“Sherlock. I'm not breaking up with you.” John tenderly whispered as they gently rocked in place. 

Sherlock nodded gratefully, face still buried in John’s shoulder. “I'm so sorry. It will never happen again. I'm sorry. I truly am, I don't know what got ahold of me, I'm sorry, I love you–” Sherlock blubbered through tears. 

John smiled kindly. “I forgive you. I really do. But Sherlock, I need two things from you.”

“Anything.” Sherlock said seriously as he dug his face out from John’s shoulder and looked his boyfriend directly in the eyes. 

“I need you to eat again. And stop… Stop hurting yourself. I love you, Sherlock. And when you do things like,” He paused, gesturing to Sherlock’s hip, “That, it kills me.” 

Sherlock gulped, clearly overwhelmed but nodded assuringly. He would make himself better, for John.


End file.
